


5 Times The Doctor Just Couldn't Help Himself

by starrfleet



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 5 Times Fic, F/M, Smooching, because i bloody love those, maybe some angst for good measure, silliness in space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrfleet/pseuds/starrfleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times the Doctor kissed Clara because he just can't seem to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty then, so this is my first twelve/clara fic and I'm a little apprehensive and more than likely to make spelling/grammatical errors: forgive me. I love these two trashbabies I just couldn't help myself. I'll try update as frequently as possible. I've also changed it to M, just in case I get carried away with myself which I'm about 90/10 is going to happen.
> 
> none of these characters belong to me! I keep forgetting to mention that, whoops. I'd love it if they did, of course, but alas. instead I must make do with trying to subtly bend the BBC into making them fuck, or, kiss you know whatever.

“Clara! Clara are you okay?” 

Clara recognises the voice, gravelly, and heavily accented. It’s pretty attractive when she thinks about it. Not that she does, _obviously_. She feels something on her face, hovering over her shoulders, indecisive of their placement. She focuses on what appear to be hands, his hands, the Doctor’s hands, and sits up. She flexes her fingers, toes, and rolls her shoulders, but nothing seems to be broken. Just a sharp ache in her head, and niggling pain which she suspects is from being sat in a rather uncomfortable position.

“Clara, Clara, I tried to distract it but apparently nothing I was doing would sway it and then it saw you, my Clara, and well, you’re just so short and round and edible it just couldn’t help itself and—“

“Hold on, hold on. Edible? Did you just say I was so edible? And _round_?” she recognises the outrage in her own voice but finds it hard to reign in around this idiot sometimes. Well, most of the time.

... Edible?

“Well yes, just look at you! All big eyes and curves and,” he does a strange wobbly kind of action with his body that she’s not really sure what it means, and raises her eyebrow, “And besides, you’re _hurt_.” 

“Hurt how?” she frowns and frantically touches her face because that’s where his eyes are fixated. The Doctor seems fascinated by it. His voice seemed to almost quiver on the last word, which makes her think it’s really bad. He doesn’t ever tremble like that and yet there he is, kneeling in front of her, hands still hovering with a slight but definitely noticeable shake to his frame. And he’s _still_ staring at her so she asks, “Why are you staring?” 

Infuriatingly, he merely shrugs. She’s about to come out with some exasperated remark when he seems to hesitate for a fraction of a second before cupping her face and swooping in to kiss her. To really kiss her. Gently but with such relief pouring through, if she wasn’t already on the ground her legs would have given out from under her, and you really don’t get a kiss like that every day. He lingers, strokes her cheekbone with his thumb, sucks on her bottom lip a little, then moves back.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at her face, and really that’s just preposterous. How can he look so bloody contained after that?

Clara opens her mouth and closes it again. He just kissed her. He _kissed_ her. There was face holding and tenderness and he sucked her lip for god’s sake. She’d been thinking about it for so long, and in so many different ways, but each time he’d looked at least a little more flustered, and it was just a fantasy for crying out loud, but then he’d actually bloody done it and she didn’t know what to say. And he looked _completely bloody fine._

“Are you okay? You look a bit dazed, Clara.”

Clara immediately thinks, _you bastard,_ but manages to croak out, “Yeah, thanks. Just a bit of a headache.”

“Oh that’ll be from the Rock Worm. It knocked you clean out. Right into that wall. I’m surprised you haven’t got concussion. You haven’t have you?” he pauses to apparently look more intensely at her eyes, then relaxes, “Hmm, I think you’re safe. I found a way to distract it finally, by the way, though I’d rather not go into the details, could be a little embarrassing. We’re safe as houses now. Rock worm’s have very particular tastes you know. Ridiculous name when you think about it, the rock worm, considering how many legs it has. Or arms. Are they arms? I’ve never really been able to figure that out. Tentacles perhaps, and it certainly doesn’t look like a rock, or not the ones I’ve met.” He starts babbling and Clara is gobsmacked by how completely normal he’s being after he’s just kissed her. It’s like it never happened. Maybe it didn’t, maybe she’s actually hallucinating from being throw into a wall by a sodding rock worm. 

She tries to stand and ends up groaning and throwing a hand out to steady her, which of course, _of course_ he catches hold of and gives a gentle squeeze. _Bastard._

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re not being as irritating as usual and you haven’t once told me to shut up.”

“I can’t think straight. The room’s spinning.” She’s not lying, it won’t stop swaying.

“That’s from—“

“The knock on the head yes I know, I was bloody there,” she hisses at him and narrows her eyes. The room is still turning far too quickly for her liking and he’s being far too casual. They stare at each other, almost challenging the other to look away. Suddenly, his lips quirk up and he breaks the silence.

“Well,” there’s a twinkle in his eye and she knows what he’s about to say is going to make her want to punch him. He’s still holding her hand, unconsciously (or consciously, who knows at this point) stroking her fingers, “I was going to say it could be from something else.”

She watches him for a full minute, a slither of pride deepening in her when she sees his smirk fade a little and him blush just the right amount that it strokes her ego. There aren’t many people that can do that to him with just a look, but then, Clara’s had practice. “Do you want to finish that sentence?”

She knows he won’t, she knows he isn’t the type to kiss her and then bring it up. He won’t ever talk about this. It’s hard enough to get him to hug her, which involves very little actual communication. It’ll just be passed off as some kind of—

“I was going to saying from me kissing you.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’ve been told I’m rather—“

“I can’t believe you’re still talking. Stop,” she holds up her free hand (why is he still holding one?) and looks as severe as she possibly can, “Stop immediately. I need a cup of tea and sleep. Probably a shit load of painkillers, too. Thanks to _someone._ ”

The Doctor has the insight to look offended at least. “How is this my fault? You were the one who suggested—“

She cuts him off and points a stern finger in his face. “You, mister know-it-all said this would be fun. You said this would a nice, quiet Thursday afternoon. A pleasant change from all the running. A relaxing agreeable little trip with lakes that look like melted gold. Not running away from bloody rock worms underground! Which, by the way!” She adds, further cutting him off arguing because he can’t possibly win this one, “Don’t remotely look like either rocks or worms, and move a hell of a lot faster than a bloody caterpillar!” She throws his own comment back at him, daring him to disagree. 

He stares wide eyed at her, opening his mouth in mock horror (she knows it well enough by now) and finally says “Caterpillars can actually move quite fast when they need to. For instance!”

She punches his arm before he can finish, and this would all be a lot more satisfying if he wasn’t still gently stroking her hand. She really can't believe how normal they're acting.

“Take me back to the TARDIS before I feed you to a pissed off rock creature.”

 


	2. Brushes and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Doctor's point of view. He can't stop thinking about that kiss, can't stop peppering her in touches and affection, but Clara needs him and he has to quell every urge coursing him through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I got a little carried away. I don't have a beta, so please forgive my mistakes!! I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed writing this chapter.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like he’s never experienced or done anything else in his life to warrant memory, because that’s all that keeps playing. Over and over. He doesn’t know why he did it, except he does because he was just so _relieved_ that she wasn’t dead and he’s spent so long reigning himself in so he wouldn’t _touch_ her but now that’s all he wants to do. It’s like he’d not only cracked a damn but blown a hole in it so large the whole river practically came rushing through at once. It was her lips. It was her face. Her warmth, her huge eyes, that smile, the way she’d leant forward and into his touch. _Her lips._  

He kept himself away longer, threw himself into running away before he came back, but she knew, of course she knew. She could tell. She took one look at him, narrowed her eyes and demanded to know what was going on. She was so bossy… _her lips._

Next time he takes even longer before seeing her, because he can’t stop brushing her hands and standing close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from her. He keeps peppering her with little gifts of touch, and he can’t stop. It’s like he’s built up a whole lifetimes worth and wants to bestow them all on her at once. He knows she's getting suspicious, he knows she’s knows but he can’t seem to help himself, he curses himself for using a term so basic and cliché but she’s like a magnet, and no matter how much he tries to keep his hands by his sides, they still gravitate towards her, almost of their own accord.

He looks at the traitors in question and torments them, working them until they’re cracked and bleeding.

Naturally this only conspires against him because almost as soon as he’s stepped out of the TARDIS immediately Clara pulls him into her kitchen, clucking in disapproval, hands on his shoulders, on his arms, moving him, guiding him. She disappears and comes back with a box and he makes a half protest but then falls quiet because she’s touching his hands, the barest whispers of contact on his wrists and it feels like he’s falling but he doesn’t care because her touch is like magic. The cuts sting but he doesn’t notice, just looks at her face, concentrated on healing him, _him._ What has he ever done to deserve this kind of devotion? He feels gratitude swelling in his chest, too bright to bear so he brings a free hand to tuck the hair behind her ear and he swears his hearts stop when she looks up and smiles. _Her lips._

She brings it up once, this sudden increase in proximity between them.

“What’s going on with you?”

He looks up and frowns at her. She’s trying to look casual, half leaning against the TARDIS console, but he can see the intensity in her eyes. “What are you talking about?”  
“You, this,” she gestured between them and for a moment he thinks he’s been found out, that she knows how he feels, “you keep _touching_ me. I’m worried.” She half shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal.

“I do not,” he doesn’t know why he’s denying it, he’s given up attempting to quell the urges. He thinks she’ll make a witty comment, and he’ll toss one back and they’ll be done with it, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even raise a disbelieving eyebrow, instead she just widens her eyes.  


“Doctor.” Her voice has gone serious like she’s given up the jovial, joking pretence they normally maintain over the ridiculous tension that crackles between them. 

“Your eyes are doing that thing again,” he’s trying to keep it light but his hearts aren't in it, and he steps towards her without meaning to. She speaks so quietly he almost misses it.

“Are you dying?”

He feels the air punched out of his lungs, and silently manages to shake his head. Her voice sounds so wary, so desperate. He’s causing her pain but he doesn’t know if he can stop, doesn’t know how.

“Tell me.” Her voice racks up, cracking like a whip in the silence. Even the TARDIS seems to be holding her breath.  
“Clara,” he walks forward, one step, two, then the miles it seems to take before he wraps her in his arms and rests his chin on her head, “Clara, my Clara.”

He feels her shake and he thinks she might be crying and he can’t _stand_ it, the very idea that his death would cause her this much pain is almost too much. It's absurd. Ridiculous. He says her name like a prayer, an algorithm to the complexities of his DNA, repeats it, letting it wash over them both. He rubs her back, and strokes her hair. 

“I’m not dying,” she shifts and looks up at him, and she’s so close, her eyes are so big and her lips are so beautifully crafted, as if they were made for him alone to cherish, and he repeats what he said hoping to cement it, “I’m not dying. Not yet.”  
“Would you tell me?” It’s such an odd thing to consider. He, the man who dies again and again, only to live on, would he tell her if he was dying, and yet he understands. He recognises what she’s asking. This form, this regeneration of himself. Even after she's seen another disappear. Would he tell her?

“If I knew it was coming, yes.” He isn’t sure himself if it’s a lie, but for this moment in time, it’s enough. 

Finally, _finally_ , upon his answer, she smiles. She’s still so close. He reluctantly untangles his arms before this can create anymore of a disaster, leaving them to linger on her wrists. He fights to let go, fights to give them up, and finally does, but not before dropping a delicate brush of a kiss to her bewitching lips. She looks as if, god help him, she’s going to reach up for more, and he can’t bear the tension so blurts something ridiculous and takes a small step back.

“Of course, I could get hit by a train. In space. On a Tuesday.” He narrows his eyes conspiratorially at the word ‘Tuesday', and she smacks him on the arm. The sound seems to shatter the tautness of the air.

“What the hell does the day have to do with it?”

 

He hasn’t kissed her since then. Well. He’s dropped featherlight kisses on her head, once her shoulder which earned him a very strange look, and once when they were feigning knightly chivalry and he bowed and kissed her hand. It was too much, too much and not nearly enough. He felt like he was constantly on edge around her, the air strung with a high frequency on the precipice of shattering glass. 

After he’d left her that time, he only waited a week before seeing her again. Although, he argued, as he felt he had to to keep up this dammed pretence between them, relatively speaking the was no passing of time in the TARDIS. No days, no nights, no Thursday afternoons. It could have been seconds, he told her. He didn’t tell her it felt like years.

 

When she’s next in the TARDIS, she’s distracted. He notices from the off and he wonders if this isn’t perhaps the first step of the next stage, though he doesn’t know what that stage is, or if he wants to know. She’s withdrawn and quiet. She smiles but there’s no life behind it. Crestfallen and horrified at the thought that maybe the next stage is her leaving, he grows nervous and tries to refrain from making contact. His gentle nudges turn into awkward pats, his lingering hands kept to his sides. He tries to make light of the situation. He teases her as normal and for a short while it seems to work, but when he can’t help himself and touches her nose with his fingertip, she swats away his hand with real annoyance and he can feel time screeching to a halt.

“Stop petting me,” she snaps and crosses her arms, not looking at him, “I’m not a child.”

He pauses, but he’s nervous and he knows he shouldn’t say it he _knows_ , but the words come tumbling out anyway, “Are you sure? You’re about the size of one. Even with those stilts of yours.”

Her gaze snaps to his, quick as a whip and he feels trapped. There’s fury in her beautiful eyes, not something he’s used to being on the receiving end of, and he’s terrified.

“ _Stilts_?” Her voice is a growl and he couldn’t speak if his life depended on it, not with her looking at him with fire. He gestures loosely to her feet and she looks down and then all at once, like everything has drained from her body in a fraction of a second, her posture breaks and he can see the fight leave her. 

“Clara?” He reaches out but drops his hand when she speaks, now slumped against the console. 

“Take me home, Doctor.” Her voice is filled with everything he’s never wanted to hear. His hearts beat faster and he can feel her slipping through his fingers but he can’t lose her not now, not _yet_.

“But I thought you wanted to see–-”

“Please,” her voice cracks and he stops speaking but he couldn’t finish that sentence if he wanted to, “just take me home.”

There’s silence again and he remembers the last time, remembers the last time it was like this in here when he couldn’t speak for her sadness but this is a different kind. More dangerous somehow. His throat closes up but he forces himself to speak because if he doesn’t he knows it won’t ever be the same.

“What happened?” She makes a small noise, like a wounded animal and he takes another step forward unable to bear being so far away, “I promise I’ll take you home, but tell me… please.” He all but whispers the last word and she shifts so her back is to the console, her face in profile to him. She raises her head and looks up, as if some kind of relief will be bestowed upon her from above.

“I lost a kid,” for a second he thinks she means a child of her own, and he feels a rush of emotions; jealousy, blinding rage, and an ache because he knows what it feels like to lose a child, but then she keeps talking and he clamps down on them, “it was on a trip. It was just a stupid accident but… she was under my care. I was supposed to be protecting her, and I _didn’t_." 

She sounds like she’s about to shatter, like she’s going to fall into an irreparable number of pieces and accept it as a defeat. She looks at him, and he wants to hold her. He wants to wrap her in his arms and keep her close, show her how he loves her, how she’s everything to him. How he aches to keep her happy and would do anything, but this is about her. So he doesn’t hold her, doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t touch her. He nods and moves around the console, fighting inside himself. They’re both ignoring the words that hang unspoken in the air. _Why didn’t you tell me? How can I help?_

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

He doesn’t want to leave her. He doesn’t want to take her back to her empty flat and leave her alone, but he doesn’t want to take any more of the life from her by going against what she asks. All he ever wants is to do as she wishes, but now he isn’t certain, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to jeopardise this further, but he thinks if he can pull it off it might work. It might bring the horror she’s feeling out of her bones, make her feel human again. He decides to risk it.

He recalls how he feels every time he sees her after a period of absence. Like spring breaking after a long winter. So that’s where he takes her. Instead of home, to silent desperate rooms, he takes her to a place where spring is perpetually blossoming, where flowers fill fields like lakes, swaying in an air that smells like creation. He walks her to the door and she steps out, barely registering at first where she is, or where she isn’t. She walks forward and looks up, and then her body tightens and stills. He thinks he’s made a mistake, made the wrong decision. He takes one last risk, stands near her, and holds his hand out. He feels like they’re standing in the void, like there’s nothing between them but they’re eons apart. She’s just out of reach. No matter how far he reaches he can’t get to her. 

After what feels like a lifetime, she suddenly laughs. It’s boarding on hysterical but he delights in the way she covers her mouth and grasps his hand. It’s like the sound has popped a balloon and he breaths because the weight is gone and she’s smiling. It’s not her usual smile, the kind that could blind a sun, but it’s warm and real and present. 

They walk hand in hand, through fields and trees, by lakes and rivers. He tells her about this place, the ground that’s soft and springy beneath their feet, the trees that grow in shades of azure and pink sapphire. He tells how everything is edible, teasing about everything being edible anywhere just not technically advisable and she laughs and he thinks he could get drunk on her laughter. He tells her with a wry smile, it once inspired an author to write about a chocolate factory where low and behold everything was edible. She looks at him in wide eyed wonder at that and he wants to kiss the breath out of her. After a while they fall silent, but continue to walk, until they reach the top of a hill at the start of a valley and he stops. He tugs on her hand and she comes back to stand by his side and take in the view.

"You remember that time, when we tried to stop that thing being built?” She raises an eyebrow at him and he waggles his hand in a rough gesture, “you know, the thing that people with a lot of money have.”

She gives him a fond look, “You might have to explain it.”

“You know, like a floating box with lots of windows and tubes." 

Her frown deepens but then slowly clears, and she asks if he meant the palace for the 789th Prince of Njikim.

"Yes! Do you remember?” She nods and remarks it was one of their stranger trips. “Undoubtedly, and you remember when you saved the prince’s life?”

She rolls her eyes but her smile falters, “Doctor…”

“No, you did. Anyway anyway that’s not the point. The point is! In stopping that, you saved this valley,” he gestures below them and she slowly turns to look, “you saved all the people in it, including,” he stands closer and points to a building not too far away, where they can hear laughter and voices, “that school. Including... all those children in it.”

He looks at her with a soft smile but it falls from his face, when he sees the tears falling down hers. She makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a sob and laughter, and then she’s looking at him.

He thinks of the things he’s seen. World’s being birthed, whole civilisations crying out with joy, stars living and dying, art that’s lasted 100,000 years and art when it was first created, people discovering world changing physics, time and life pouring in the universe, countless faces of lives saved, Clara’s face when he kissed her and _yet_. None of it, _none of it_  can compare to the way she’s looking at him now. 

And then she throws her arms around him, kisses his cheek, a revered thank you whispered in his ear. He feels dazed and stunned, like he will never see life, or light, anything as breathtaking as what he just witnessed. He can’t speak, couldn’t if he tried. Instead he places his arms around her and holds her tightly.

When he takes her back that night, after they’d stood for a while on the hill then walked long and languid back to the TARDIS, she's exhausted. Far too many emotions in one day, and she’s thoroughly drained, he watches it hit her like a wall as they walk in, but he knows it’s safe now. He guides her to her room, where she immediately begins to remove her clothing as if she’s barely aware of his presence. The thought of so much bare skin before him is too much to bear. He grows flustered and mutters something about tea, before hastily retreating to the kitchen. He boils the kettle twice, spends extra time deciding on the mugs and finding teabags, milk, sugar. When he thinks enough time has passed he takes her the tea, both cups miraculously not spilling in one hand, and knocks on the door frame before he enters. 

She’s sat with her back to the headboard, legs drawn up under the covers looking on the verge of sleep. He softens and places the mugs of tea on her bedside table.

He hesitates, and she senses he doesn’t know how to proceed, how to leave, so she decides for him and pats the bed by her feet. He sits carefully, so as not to jostle her, fighting to keep his hands in his lap. He’s so aware of how little fabric there is between them. How few movements it would take to make it less. He sucks in a breath when he realises she’s watching him, and smiles timidly. It’s been a strange day, even by their standards.

They sit quietly sipping their tea, occasionally breaking the companionable silence with idle talk. Eventually, he puts his mug down, deciding he’s capable of touching her knee whilst still maintaining control. He pats it, giving it a little squeeze, and decides to count down from 5 in his head before he lets go, then another 5, another, until he’s at 30 and he doesn’t know what’s going on, and then his hand feels warm and he realises it’s because she’s placed hers there and then things really get out of hand.

She has a strange intensity in her eyes, emotions he can’t pin point because they’re running too fast across her face, and she leans forward to kiss him and he thinks he might have just lost a working heart. Her other hand curls up into his hair and he can feel his whole body tingling while her mouth moves beautifully against his own. He kisses her back but he barely gets a chance to really kiss her because she seems so concentrated on giving him a thorough snogging. He can’t help but make a small noise in the back of his throat when she nibbles at his lip, and his other hand which has apparently been busy, clutches her waist tighter. He wants to live in this moment forever, but then she slows as is inevitable, and kisses the corners of his mouth, his chin, his jaw and cheeks, absurdly his nose, and whispers two words in his ear.

“Thank you.”

She shifts back, her head slightly cocked to one side and gives him a small smile. He opens his mouth but has to clear his throat, twice, before he can speak.

“Anytime." 

Her smile grows into a smirk but he can still only stare at this incredible woman before him. She opens her mouth and makes a noise but snaps her jaw shut, but he can see it. He can _see_ the words on her lips but he doesn’t push. They hang in the air but he’ll take them anyway.

_I love you. I love you I love you I love you._

Instead she says,

"Your hair looks good like that.”

 


	3. Bloody Contraptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor hasn't been a good boy at all and honestly Clara thinks she might be about to kill the last living Time Lord in the whole universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started kind of half heartedly writing this and then just couldn't stop. Truly they're utter fucking idiots and I just want them to bone, asap. They practically write themselves.  
> I did take a few liberties with this chapter; I wasn't sure on the time between Death in Heaven and Last Christmas so just sort of guessed, and I couldn't quite get the argument I wanted so it might read a little half hearted. Any fans of New Girl will undoubtedly recognise a much favoured scene that I just couldn't help but bend into whouffaldi. But that's all for you to decide not me and I hope it's still enjoyable. I also don't know how to write kisses so forgive me if it reads a little awkward. Clara's point of view again!
> 
> ENJOY, CHERUBS!

She knows he’s being doing it recently, staying away longer, but he’s never stayed away this long before. Even after they said their goodbyes and it was months, then Christmas where he was there and it was like she found herself again, like she’d been lost and he walked back into her life and she knew her purpose. Okay, so it had been sort of ridiculous, because Santa? and granted they both nearly died but they were together so it didn’t matter. Besides, when wasn't anything they ever did utterly ridiculous?

It had, to date, been exactly 8 months since she’d last seen him, and she’s furious with him. God she’ll kill him when she next sees him, she’ll bloody _throttle_ him, but then she thinks _if, if you see him again_ and the anger slips.   

Coal Hill is a welcome distraction, though she still keeps half expecting him to walk in to an announcement of Mr Smith returning to be their caretaker. She’s not yet over the death of one of her students, but she’s getting there, but _that_ , that right there is why she's so angry. He knew, he _knows_ , how devastated she was about it. He’d taken her to an incredible place, something literally right out of Roald Dahl, to a place he knew would help her and god it did. She still had nights where she couldn’t sleep, and she still hadn’t been able to trust herself to the responsibility of another school trip, not that the school would allow her or Adrian too anyway but that was a whole other kettle of fish, but he’d lessened that horror inside herself, and then just fucking disappeared. She couldn’t believe he was like that. Couldn’t believe he’d do something like that to anyone, let alone _her_. 

They hadn’t talked about whatever the hell it was that was going on between them. They hadn’t discussed the touches, the kisses, the _seriously_ good snogging that had happened last time, so she wasn't sure where she stood exactly, but she was sure she was more important to him than this. He wouldn’t even answer his blasted phone. This worried her, obviously, because she’d begun to think he’d actually died and then she felt guilty for being so angry, and guilty for not being there, but she was sure she’d feel something, she was sure she’d get this feeling in her gut if he had. 

Adrian recognised that she was distracted. He sensed she was unhappy, and had begun to spend a little more time with her, which she mildly appreciated. Mildly, because she liked that they were becoming friends, and what she desperately needed right now was a friend, but then… he looked so much like him. Sometimes she couldn’t stand to look at him. Once he had worn an outfit so befitting of _him_ that she’d been unable to look at him all day without her eyes filling up with tears. He hadn’t worn it again after that. He never asked, though, and she appreciated that more than words could ever say.

She was in fact, walking back to her flat with him one night, when she thought she heard the noise of the TARDIS and got so startled that she’d halted mid sentence and dropped her bag. She’d barely refrained from calling out. Spooked, she muttered an apology to Adrian and hurried home, her heart racing but found her flat void of him. Again.

 

After a particularly trying day at Coal Hill, she’d dropped everything on the floor as soon as she entered her flat, and gone immediately for the wine. She’d opened a book, and drank about half the glass before she’d fallen asleep. She woke when it was dark, her neck aching, book slumped on her lap, wine glass luckily sat solidly on the coffee table. She rubbed her neck and stood to walk to the kitchen, taking her glass with her as she went. Before she’d even reached the cupboards, she heard it. The creaks, and the whirs, the unmistakable sound of the TARDIS. She froze facing the door. 

The Doctor walked in.

“Clara! Oh, it’s incredible. You won’t believe it. All the trips we’ve been on, oh they’re nothing, this is the one, it’s a trip of a lifetime, come on we have to go now. We’ve just got enough time, come on come on!”

She thought she’d perhaps finally lost it. In all her waiting, all her torment, she’d actually gone mad and started hallucinating about him in her kitchen.

“What are you looking at me like that for? Why aren’t you moving?” He moved a few steps closer to her, leaning in and frowning, “Why are you eyes doing that thing? They’re all big and spooky.”

This wasn’t a hallucination. It was definitely him. Only he could ever possibly be so _fucking stupid._

“No,” she lifted her hand, pointing her finger in his face to add emphasis on how much of a bloody bollocking he was in for, “no, don’t you dare, don’t you fucking _dare_ walk in here like that.”

“Like what? What are you talking about, Clara? We don’t have _time_ for talking, we need to go—“

“Tell me you’re joking. You have to be joking. No one could actually be this _stupid._ Tell me you’re joking.”  
“ _Me_? How am I being stupid?” He raised her hands against his chest in horror and she had to put her glass down on the counter before she threw it in his face, “You’re—“  
“Shut up. Shut the hell up, Doctor. I’m not kidding. I can’t believe you would…” she trailed off, unable to speak for the anger that was bubbling inside her. He was opening his mouth and closing it again in confusion. Any relief, any happiness she’d felt at him being here, were being swallowed being the shear fury that was threatening to break through. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss that _infuriating_ look on his face. She wanted to put him through the window. God, she was going to kill him.

“Eight months,” that at least finally seemed to get through him. He opened his mouth but she spoke again before he could interrupt, “Shut up. _Eight. Months._ ”

He took a long time to answer, but when she did she thought she’d actually burst a vein and very nearly hit him with the wine bottle that was settled so temptingly on the counter near her, “Eight months what?”

“ _You._ You have been gone, for eight. Months.” She watched the colour drain from his face but it wasn’t enough, it didn’t even come close.

“Impossible.“

“Seriously? You’re telling me I’m lying to you?”  
“No, of course not but—“  
“How? _How_ could you do that to me?”  
“I didn’t—“

“Shut up! _You_ do not get to speak. _You_ do not come out with some bullshit that I _always_ take in. You do not get _any_ privileges right now. Eight months, Doctor! Do you have any idea? Any at all? I’d lost someone, a human being, a _child_ no less under _my own care_ , and you fucking _left._ You disappeared for eight months! Eight! Jesus christ,” she slumped back against the counter, trying to keep herself from shouting but she’d bottled this up for so long, so long, and she just couldn’t do it, couldn’t stop herself, “And do you know the best thing? You didn’t even fucking call me. You didn’t even answer your bloody phone.”

“Clara I didn’t—“  
“You live in a bloody _phone box!_ Don’t even try that gambit on me, mister. I’m not an idiot. How could you do that to a friend, never mind someone who…” She shook her head, ignoring his imploring expression, “I lost a child and then I lost _you_. Do have any idea what that did to me? You’ve lost people I know you have, you know how it feels. What the hell was I supposed to think? What the hell was I meant to think when we, when you…”  
“When I what, Clara?” He asked when she didn’t finish, stepping closer to her, and she was having absolutely none of that.

“When you kissed me like that and then left.”

“When _I_ kissed you like that? When I did?” He raised an eyebrow at her and she felt her fury grow.

“Are you arguing with me? Are you seriously trying to argue with me right now?”

“Isn’t this what we’re doing? Fighting?” He gestured to the closing space between them and she gritted her teeth.

“No. Fighting implies each side has a cause, and _you._ You do not get a cause, you do not get a say.”

“Oh well isn’t that terribly fair of you. I can see why you make such a diligent teacher,” he snapped and then his face froze in horror. Her eyes filled with tears but instead of leaving this, instead of telling him to go, she just keeps ploughing on. Burning through all the memories they’ve created, destroying everything she can in her wake because he _hurt_ her.

“Is that why you left? Because you think I’m such a _diligent_ teacher, because I got one of my kids killed?” She takes another step closer and they’re less than arms length apart now.

“Of course not! Don’t be so ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous? I'm being ridiculous? Coming from the man who watched me despair and then _left. For eight months_! And I’m the one that’s being ridiculous?” She was shouting now and she hated him. God, she hated him. Hated his stupid accent and his stupid eyebrows. His stupid mouth and his stupid fathomless grey eyes.

“It’s not like that! I didn’t—”  
“You live in a fucking _time machine_! You don’t get to use as an that excuse! How could you do that to me, Doctor? I grieved for you. I hated you for a good long time, _hated_ you, then that turned into guilt and grief. I looked everywhere. I went out of my mind. I thought I was worth more to you. I thought we… I thought we were…”  
“Thought we were what?” He takes another step closer and she can’t tell if it’s hope or revulsion or desperation in his eyes, she can’t tell and she _hates it_. “I don’t know what you want, Clara. What do you want? Tell me. Tell me and I’ll do it.” His voice is so earnest and god fucking _damn it_ they’re meant to be arguing but this sounds like a declaration and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I—“  
“No beating around the bush here, Clara. I left you, I did and I’m sorry,” he hesitates but then hurtles on, the words coming out like they’re tripping over themselves in their hurry to be heard, “I’m so sorry, it kills me to think I caused you so much pain, I would never intentionally do that to you _never_ , that’s never been my intention. I can’t… if you want me to leave I’ll go but I won’t leave until you tell me to. I won’t ever leave you again until you order me out the door.”

It’s a referendum, one way or another, but she’s still so angry the words come out of their own accord, “Then go.”

It’s like she’s slapped him. She can see the hurt and desperation in his face, so plain and clear. Like she’s jackknifed his hearts right out of his chest and she feels sickened. His face then clears, removed of all emotion and somehow that’s even worse, and she thinks her legs might give out. This is a nightmare.

He doesn’t say a word just turns and walks. She hadn’t realised until this moment how close they’d been standing, but now she feels it because all the heat, all the energy all the life has disappeared in front of her, and everything is suddenly cold and void of colour. There’s only his back and it’s disappearing quicker ice in a desert.

“Wait!” She surges forward and nearly cries because he’s turning but he’s angry now. His brow is set low and there’s a darkness in his face, and she’s supposed to be incandescent but all she can see is his back as he walked away.

“What? What do you want, Clara? I’m not here at your beck and call. I don’t live solely to please you.”

It hurts and that infuriates her because how is he _doing_ this? It’s not going her way at all so she changes her tactic, “I’m not done. I’m not done being angry at you but I want to try explain this because you don’t get it. You don’t understand. You’re… you’re my best friend _._ You’ve no idea how much you mean to me. I had no idea if you were even _alive_ , Doctor.”

He takes a hesitant step which makes the distance a little more bearable; he’s further away from the door, closer to her. “I thought… I thought it would be for the best. If I, if we didn’t see each other for a while. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to be away so long, but then I didn’t know how to… I should’ve…”

How the hell is she supposed to respond to _that_.

“You thought it would be for the best.”

“Yes.”

“If we didn’t see each other for a while.”

“For eight months.”

“I may have… miscalculated.”

She stares at him. Stares and then looks away, shaking her head. When she speaks, her voice is dangerously low, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

She whips her head round to meet his gaze and narrows her eyes, raising her voice without intending to, “I don’t. Believe you.”

“Why not?” 

She ignores his tone of voice and snaps at him, pointing her finger accusingly, “Because I don’t believe even _you_ could be so bloody blind.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at her, so she keeps talking, “Even you couldn’t be so completely thick. How could you think it would be good? How the hell did you think it would be a healthy idea? Leaving for eight months with no fucking word. _How_ —“ but she’s cut off because he strides forward, bats her hand away, placing his own on either side of her face and kisses her. 

It’s even better than arguing, it’s even more satisfying because she bites at his lip, slides her hands in his hair and tugs. They're still fighting, only without bitter and dangerous words and he’s kissing her so passionately and with such force, in all normal circumstances she’d be swept off her feet. But she hasn't seen him in eight months and she’s still fuming. Like _hell_ is he going to win this.

She pulls back for air, to clear her swimming head, but he just starts kissing her neck, his hands moving and stroking, pulling her closer, “You’re an idiot. You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Shut up,” he murmurs before moving back to kiss her again. This time he’s the one who sucks on her lip and she can’t help the noise she makes in the back of her throat. She keens and god that’s embarrassing but his tongue is in her mouth and _jesus christ_. How is it possible he can kiss like this, like his fucking life depends on how quickly he makes her want to lose her knickers.

His tongue seems to be making a map of every point from her own tongue to the backs of her teeth and she swears she can feel it down to her bones. She pulls on his hair and he makes such a delicious noise she nearly cries.

“I can’t believe you. I don’t know how you could do this,” she’s kind of horrified at herself for leaving that gorgeous mouth to say such a pointless, stupid thing, but damn it she’s still pissed.

“Stop talking,” he says darkly, and then suddenly lifts her up by the waist to sit on the counter which thank god because that actually gives her the upper hand. She wraps her legs around him, and rakes her nails on his scalp, latching on to his mouth and pressing her chest against his. They’re kissing with bruising intensity now, his tongue dragging against hers, teeth clashing and nipping. He moves to kiss her neck again and _christ_ , he flattens his tongue against her skin and bites none too gently, enough to leave a mark and her breath leaves her body all in a rush. His hands are gripping her hips and she thinks his fingers will leave bruises and she doesn’t know what turns her on more; his possessive need for her or the bruises themselves. And then he does something _particularly_ devastating with his tongue that she groans and bites her nails into his shoulders. 

“ _Fuck._ You don’t get to get away with this, we’re not done with this fight, not nearly.”

“I thought we weren’t fighting,” he says, raising a challenging eyebrow and _why the hell is that so attractive?_

“You weren’t. I was. I was arguing. You were listening.” She’s breathless and her heart’s racing, and the look on his face isn’t helping matters at all.

“Do you ever stop talking?” His hands are now thumbing circles on the insides of her knees and it’s so distracting she almost says nothing, but she wants to make him suffer. She wants to torment him in some way, wants to take him apart. So she pulls in every ounce of desperation in her voice, heartbreak and need, everything she’s felt over the last eight months, _everything_ , and says his name, “ _Doctor_.” 

The air is crackling between them and he stills. She can see his pupils grow wider, and the air feels like it’s on fire. She takes in his ruffled hair, his eyes growing darker by the second, the deepening pink of his cheeks and smirks and thinks _finally._ But then the absolute tosser goes and speaks and she loses her breath.

“Take your clothes off, right now. I mean it.”

_Fuck._

She manages to pull her jumper over her head, dropping it next to her. She immediately starts on the buttons on her shirt but then he’s pulling on her legs and leaning in to kiss her again and his hand slides up her thigh and she _moans_ and his breath stutters and god she wants this to happen right fucking now. He’s sucking on her tongue and she can feel the heat pooling at the bottom of her spine. She forgoes the buttons on her shirt and wraps her arms around him to whisper “Bedroom” in his ear, and he groans so loud it reverberates through her.

They’re half way to her bedroom, and honestly she's surprised they’ve even made it this far without tearing each other’s clothes off, when her phone starts ringing and he honest to god growls. “Ignore it.”  
“Was planning to.” She manages, breathless. She’s trying to pull it out her pocket and throw it on the table but he won’t stop _touching her_ and he’s making it so difficult. She lets out a huff of annoyance and manages to somehow get a hold on it, but then he’s growing irritated that she’s got her attention elsewhere, even if only a fraction of her focus, that he grabs it and reaches to put it on the table. He slows and she thinks it’s just because he can’t reach, and she’s about to make a comment about him not being as tall as he thinks he is, when he frowns at her.

“Adrian?”

She stares at him, completely thrown but nothing comes to her, “What?” 

“Adrian.” He says again and it’s like he’s gone off on a completely different track, she has no idea what the hell he’s talking about and he’s still wear his fucking clothes for crying out loud. “Adrian is ringing you,” the ringing stops and he corrects himself, “rang you.”

“What has this got to do with anything, _at all_?” She’s annoyed because although he still has his hand on her hip, he’s stopped in his ministrations. No matter the faces she's pulling he won’t fucking move and honestly she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stop herself from punching him for much longer, “ _Seriously_?”  
“Are you…?” He trails off and she cannot believe he’s asking her this now, at this very moment.  
“With Adrian? Are you joking? What is happening!” She leans back against the wall and groans. She forgets he can still be prone to human emotions.

“You tell me.”

“Are you actually being serious right now, Doctor? Right now? You’re asking me that now?”

“Do you need me to repeat the question?” There’s no mirth in his voice and now she really can’t help herself. She smacks his arm, and points her finger in his face.

“Are you accusing me of cheating on you?”

“I’m not your boyfriend, Clara.” 

“So you keep bloody saying!” She shouts and can feel the tears coming back and damn it, she’s not going to cry in front of him, she _won’t_. How is it possible not thirty seconds ago they were tearing clothes off each other? She’s watching emotions flash across his face, his hands now clenched into fists at his sides. She thinks she might see regret in his eyes, at the way this is going, at everything he’s saying, but she’s just so tired. She’s so tired of being angry at him. She’s spent the better part of a year exhausting herself on emotions for him, because of him, when he wasn’t even fucking there.

“Get out.” She says, shaking her head.

“Clara—“

“Out!” Shouting, she points to the TARDIS, and doesn’t give him another glance before storming to her room and slamming the door. Seconds later, she hears another door slam and bizarrely thinks to herself, _the TARDIS won’t be happy he did that._ Almost immediately she reopens her door and comes flying back out, but it’s okay because he’s already walking out the TARDIS with only one purpose in his mind and then he’s kissing her again. He backs her into the wall, murmuring apologies, kissing her jaw, her cheekbone, her nose, nibbling at her earlobe.

She drags her hands through his hair, planting him against her neck where he nips and sucks and she can feel her knees weaken. Her shirt is half unbuttoned and he shifts to kiss the top of her breasts. Her head thuds against the wall, and she elicits a moan that sounds obscene even to her ears. He looks up at her and god, if that  isn’t the most electrifying thing she can’t help but kiss him deeply, filthily, like she’s trying to kiss the life from him. His hand slips under her skirt and she gasps, thinking she's on the verge of dying when—

_Drrinngggg_. _Drrinnnnggg Drrrinnnnnnggggg._

“Clara,” he growls, and she swats at him.

“It’s not my bloody phone!”  
He looks at her outraged and then they both realise what she’s said. 

_Drrinnnngggggg drrrriinnnnggg._

“Are you sure that’s not your phone?” He whispers and she swats at him again.

“You heard my phone less than a sodding minute ago, how could you think it was my phone!” She whispers angrily back, and they stare at each other then slowly turn to look at the TARDIS.

_Drrrinnnnnngggggggg_.

“We could leave it?” They’re still whispering but neither of them are sure why. In the space of time between the rings, she can hear them both breathing heavily. She swears quietly.

“You know we can’t,” His shoulders slump and he nods; he knows she's right, “Hurry up and answer it before I throw it out the bloody window.”

“I’m not answering it.”  
“You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s your phone!”

“It’s in your flat!”

“On your TARDIS!” They’re doing that stupid shouty-whisper they always seem to do before something really ridiculous happens.

_Drrinnnnnnggggggg drinnggggggg dringgggggg._

“Oh for crying out loud,” she sighs and storms over to pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

 


	4. The Ceaseless Dark and Perfect Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't stop thinking of what he's done, of last time, of what he will do in future. He can't stop thinking about it and it's suffocating him. Doctor's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies aren't enough. I am so terribly sorry this took so long!!! If I am allowed any defence it is because I had a bit of a personal crisis or three which I'm still trying to get my head around, and this chapter just absolutely vehemently did not want to be written. The next chapter I actually had done days and days ago, but this one just wouldn't have it. It was like trying to calm a raging toddler, throwing the mother of tantrums in a very large populated place. It takes me a while to get in the zone for writing twelve, and I tried to take into account him being a little darker as had been suggested. I'm a sucker for self loathing characters, lord help me.
> 
> It took a while, but it's here and I hope it's worth the wait. I'm going to post the next chapter pretty much immediately as a sort of, "sorry for being so bloody useless have some kissing" present.  
> A thousand apologies.

He tries not to notice. He tries not to recognise the look on her face, the slight flinch and look of hurt that flashes in her eyes, before she hides it ever so quick but not quite quick enough. He sees it and it knocks the air out of him, making him clench his fists so he doesn't drop onto his knees in front of her. _Clara._ He doesn’t deserve this chance she’s given him, doesn’t deserve any of them. He catches glimpses of expressions and knows she thinks it, too. Is _sure_ she thinks it.

Eight months. It wasn't intentional, it wasn’t. He tells himself that every second he’s with her but it’s not enough, doesn’t convince him, doesn’t even come close. All these years of lying to himself and he’s never got any better at it. His mind constantly repeats how he left her, how he ran away, retreated and withdrew to the furthest stretches he could. Oh, how he ran. The TARDIS knew what he was doing. She kept landing him near her. A week later, another, until it felt like a daily occurrence. A tortuous looping reminding him of his cowardice. It wasn’t until it he’d been overcome with anger and hatred for his own weakness, ending up bleeding curled into a corner that she stopped and let him go where he pleased. She made noises of disapproval but they gradually lessened and morphed into whines of concern. The only woman he’d never let down, but even then that wasn’t entirely true. 

He thinks often, far too often, of that night in her flat. What they almost did, what still hovers between them in such an insistent cacophony of need and agonising noise. Thinking of it throws him into a mangled turmoil of emotions. Desire, regret, desperation, hatred, anger, despair. He thinks with a snort of the cliché of a storm, the name he’s been given: _The Oncoming Storm._ He’s the epitome of a tempest, the manifestation of a cliché and he can’t stand it. It makes him sink deeper into a dark pit of self loathing and disgust. He wonders at all the species’, all the worlds, all the galaxies where he is hated, wonders and laughs at the idea they could despise him more than he despises himself. At the way he keeps ruining people’s lives, the way he keeps hurting people, never learning. The way he keeps falling in love. Clara.

He’s caught among the thrashing of one of these moods when Clara calls him and asks if he’d like to do something. Biting his tongue so he doesn’t say something horrendously embarrassing, he says he’ll take her to a planet with a silent sea and sand that glitters with diamonds. He thinks about waiting his mood out, taking himself to a moon where he can hardly breathe in the atmosphere because it somehow helps to clear his head, weeks for him and seconds for her, but doesn’t. He can’t wait to see her. He feels like a child, besotted and overt in his blatant excitement at the prospect of simply being near her. Her presence exudes an almost irritating level of calm in him, which again, _clichéd._

On the planet with the beach of diamonds, he gets the time wrong by several thousand years because he’s so distracted by, of all things, her fucking wrists, so they arrive before the diamonds have formed or been washed up by the sea and the sand is the colour of, ironically in his mood, onyx. Perhaps the TARDIS did it on purpose, dropping him into a place of such contrasts and achingly similarities all at once. Something to wake him up, something to shock his system. He mumbles something to the console on his way out, narrowing his eyes at her as he closes the door. 

Clara is delighted all the same. She rolls her eyes at his admittance of getting the date wrong, gives a semi-tight smile when he brushes her shoulder and bends to take her shoes off almost immediately.

“Is it safe?”  
He looks at her blankly, distracted by her fingers brushing back a piece of hair.

“The sand. Is it safe to walk on? For me. A human.” She says slowly, like she knows he’ll be find a way around her wording and poke fun. He can’t help himself when he reaches out to touch her cheek. 

“Absolutely. Just don’t eat it.”  
“Why would I eat sand?” She frowns and he drops his hand, looking away and shrugging. “You might be hungry.” He gets the distinct impression she’s rolled her eyes again. She takes her shoes off, and makes a small noise of pleasure, one that jolts through him like a bolt, and he can’t help but notice the way her smiles grows as her toes curl into the black sand. He skims her wrist as he reaches to take her shoes, and leans back to drop them back into the TARDIS, his eyes never leaving her. Her skin looks drinkable in contrast to the sand. Like milk succumbing to black ink.

They walk for a while, his hand brushing the top of her leg as they walk side by side. He thinks of wrapping her up, engulfing her with his body, until she’s absorbed into his blood, the texture of her soul imprinted in his. Breathing with the same lungs. Laughing with the same lips, existing because of the same hearts. Minds racing and painting together. Eternally with one another. Deathless.

Hearts hammering, he takes a deep breath and tries to move his thoughts onwards. Fast forward, months, years from now. Pause. Will he do that to her again? He promised her he wouldn’t, promised her he wouldn’t leave her unless she asks, but he knows it like he knows the ache deep inside him, ever growing, that there’s a chance he will. More than probable. Run and not look back for so long that when he returns she’ll be married, she’ll have children, grandchildren. She’ll be happy without him. He sucks in another deep breath. He couldn't do that to her, he _won’t_ , and yet. He’s done it before and there are so many variables. So many things to get in the way, so many diversions that could sweep her away. He’s unreliable. He’s inconsiderate, cruel, bitter. Cold hearted. He wants her to be happy, to be content, untroubled… but he’s so selfish. He needs her, wants her, breaths her, like she’s the oxygen in his lungs. He can’t let her go.

“What are you thinking?” She bumps his shoulder and he stirs. _Wondering if there’s a club for hating me, and if I can join and become the president?_

“I’m thinking if we put you in space, would rocks gravitate towards you because your face is so round?”

She surprises him with a laugh. It sends a thrill through him, and he feels the misery abate, if only a little. A pause in the storm.

“Are you sure? You okay?”

His breath seems to shake his whole body. He aims for a confident taunt, but ends up with something more like a vague mumble. They walk on in silence, his hand on the small of her back with no real reason for being there. She says nothing which elates and depresses him at the same time.

“Have you noticed it yet?” He says after a while, shifting to stand behind her, placing his hands on her upper arms.

“Noticed what?” She turns her head slightly, leans back a little. He bends forward and whispers in her ear, “ _Listen_.” He thinks he sees her shiver.

Despite the fact he (the TARDIS) got the year wrong, he was right about a silent sea. It’s like someone pressed the mute button while it continued to crash and churn within itself. There’s a slight breeze, but otherwise all is silent. 

 

Well. 

He can hear the brush of his thumbs against her skin, the slight rustle of their clothes when she leans further into him, her breathing. He can hear heart beating, the blood moving in her veins, the tightening of her muscles as she reaches and squeezes his hand, her sadness that suddenly seems to be screaming voiceless into the air.

He can hear his betrayal, his cowardice, his fathomless rage with himself. Hear them dancing around him, taunting him. So many voices in his mind. People he’s travelled with, people he’s danced and laughed and loved with. Crying out in pain, revulsion, anger, devastation. Stuttering their last words, using the very last of their life to convey something to him. _To him._ He can hear the weight of their deaths, their grievances and hopes. He can hear the turn of the planet, the deafening roar of the sun burning itself out, the universe blazing its way towards oblivion. Clara sighs. Barely audible it drowns out everything. 

He drops a kiss on the curve of her neck and steps back, the warmth of her body immediately vanishing.

 

“It’s so strange,” she says quietly, “It makes me feel sad. This huge entity that gives off so much life, provides so much happiness and life for so many species… and yet it doesn’t make a fuss. It’s so quiet no one notices the thrashing torment.”

It feels like his whole body has fallen out of itself, crumpled and dropped to the ground like lead. He moves and trails his fingers down her arm because he’s greedy and wants to drink her in however he can. He slips his hand into hers and squeezes because he’s ravenous and nothing helps, _nothing_ , except her. Always her, always Clara. She squeezes back and looks at him and there’s so much sadness in her eyes he doesn’t know if he can’t bear it. He wants to say he loves her. He wants to tell her how much she means to him, how incredibly important she is, how he’s addicted to the feel of her skin, the liquid of her eyes, the gravity of her smile, her lips, her heart.

_I love you,_ he says, _I love you_ , only it comes out as, “I’m sorry,” the words dropping from his lips and falling like feathers between them, “I’m so sorry.”

He draws his arms around her, not wanting to hide her face but not wanting to show his either. She wraps her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. They stand like that while the waves caress the shore in terrific silence.

She moves back to look at him, staying within the enclosure of his arms. She studies him, and he can feel his chest tightening. He hates what he did to her. _Hates_ it. Hates himself all the more, and he thinks he might drown in the loathing he creates of himself, only to come back and drown again. Repeating, a never ending circle of having to endue himself, never being someone else, anyone else. Perpetually undergoing the pounding memories of numerous lives, of hurting her ad nauseam, beating him into the depths.

Her hand moves from his waist and he thinks that this is finally it, she’s finally going to tell him that she doesn’t want him, because of what he did, because of what he can never give her and what he’ll do. He feels a sickening kind of relief that the moment is finally here, but then her hand touches his cheek, cups it and sits there. He’s not sure if his legs can stand the weight of an entirely different kind of relief hitting him like an atom bomb, square in the chest. His hand skims her arm, unable to bear losing contact with her, until it reaches her own, cradling his face. He places his atop hers, briefly closing his eyes, so he can flood himself in the noise of her existence, before he places a reverent kiss to her palm. When she speaks, it’s as though he’s never heard anything so divine.

 

“I forgive you.”

 


	5. This is a Terrible Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ah."  
>  She can’t see his face, but she recognises that tone, recognises the admission in his voice. The sheepish nature. "Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”  
> “Clara.”  
> “Heels, Doctor. I’m in heels.”_
> 
> Honestly, this might be the worst plan she thinks the Doctor's ever had. Clara's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout this whole travesty, my friend has been a shining light who has kept me going and been constant encouragement, so I'm dedicating this (possibly my favourite) chapter to her. It's entirely silly and ridiculous and makes no sense whatsoever but it's one of my FAVOURITE tropes (if it's a trope??) and I unfailing love it every time I encounter it, so naturally I had to use it for these two morons. 
> 
> Apparently next season "it looks like there might be more risk of hanky-panky in the Twelfth Doctor’s Tardis than we'd been lead to believe" which I mean, !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! is terribly exciting. Anyway, on with the show and all that. It's been a bugger. I hope you've enjoyed it, too.
> 
> Maja you wonderful sod, this is for you.

They’re walking down a street on a small inhabited moon, where all the creatures are a varied shade of purple (she gets an explanation for it, but he’s so excited and so animated when he tells her, she kind of stops listening just to smile and take him) when he suddenly pulls her to one side, abruptly turning them to face some kind of market. Naturally she’s a little suspicious; his skills at espionage are abysmal and for some reason that’s what this feels like. But then she thinks that’s a little extreme, especially to jump immediately from “a nice quiet evening on a moon covered in violet hummingbirds” to “using Clara as a scape goat to actually spy on someone (or something) on a moon with very friendly inhabitants despite being unbelievably terrible at said activity”.

So she decides to let it go, and admire the glittery trinkets and exciting foods laid out in the busy market before her. They spend some time weaving between the people, the Doctor’s hand constantly in some form of contact with her, whether it on her arm steering her towards some slightly rude looking fruit, or on the small of her back or even plain and simply holding her hand, all the while whispering in her ear. She loves the sudden change in their physical relationship, how tactile he’s become.

Many of the jewellers try sway her, entice her in, flirt with her, but one look from the Doctor silences them. _This_ she definitely finds amusing; secretly thrilled to find his jealous trait so blatant and apparent in terms of her being flirted with by anyone other than him. She can’t remember when they hit that stage. She thinks it was probably a long time ago.

They leave the market, and he takes her to a quiet café placed by a river, with trees that look like willows but are somehow softer, and more lonely. True to his word there are hummingbirds zipping through the air in remarkable shades of violet, aubergine, byzantium, and lavender. He notices her gaze, and takes her to a table situated beneath its great boughs, the most secluded and hidden away. Its leaves almost create a curtain around them, and she ponders if he picked this quiet corner so they can begin to pick up from where they left off at her flat, which she’s _absolutely not thinking about thank you very much_ , but he keeps casting furtive glances around them and she can’t help but think he’s up to something. The birds dance around them and she can’t help but laugh as one elegantly lands on his teacup and starts drinking. He sniffs at it and she tells him he shouldn’t take so much sugar. 

They’re walking past an ancient building, one that their gods resided in and whom he played twister with he tells her, with turrets and spires and live plants growing from seemingly every stone so the whole structure hums with life. He’s playing with her fingers as they walk, the light seeming to deepen in that golden autumnal sunset colour she loves. She wants to drink this moment in and she looks at this brilliant, absurd, wonderful man beside her, and she leans up to kiss him because she wants nothing more in this moment than to show him how much she loves everything he gives her when he literally _pushes_ her into the building. It’s even more breathtaking inside but she hardly notices what with being so ungratefully shoved and nearly landing on her arse. She was having such a nice moment, too.

“All right. What’s going on,” she jabs a finger at his chest and narrows her eyes, “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing—“

“Shut up. Who are you hiding from? Who are _we_ hiding from?” He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at her so she steps closer and raises her voice, “ _Doctor!_ ”

“Well I can’t do both, Clara! I can’t _tell you who we’re hiding from_ and shut up. I’m a remarkable man but even I can’t do that.”

“Oh you’re bloody loving this aren’t you,” she says feeling the exasperation begin to peak, “But we are hiding from someone at least. So who. Spill.” 

“Make me,” his response is childish but they both suddenly feel overwhelmed and have to take a deep breath. Clara feels the implication shoot up her spine. She clenches and unclenches her hands, _don’t think about it_ repeating like a mantra in her head.

“So not the time.”

He raises an eyebrow and there’s a definite smirk which is not helping matters. He takes a step closer and Clara thinks _this is ridiculous_ , because there’s barely any space between them and the air is crackling. She leans up on her tiptoes, inches from his face.

“Doctor?”

“Why has your voice gone funny?” He whispers, eyes glued to her lips. She frowns, pauses, drops back onto her feet.

“That wasn’t me.”  


“What? Of course it was, it’s your height it warps your voice.”  


“ _Seriously_?”

Someone clears their throat, and they tear their gazes away from each other to look about the room they’re in. There’s someone stood, looking at them with a look Clara recognises from so many trips, so many planets, so many bloody adventures _._ It’s one that says, we’ve found you, you’re not nearly as good at hiding as you think are you, and did you really think you’d get away with it?

“Ah." 

She can’t see his face, but she recognises that tone, recognises the admission in his voice. The sheepish nature. "Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”

“Clara.”

“Heels, Doctor. I’m in _heels_.” She feels his hand slip down and grasp hers and her shoulders drop. She can hear shouts in the outside; reinforcements. Naturally.

“Can I say it now?" 

She looks at him, sees the glint in his eyes and she sighs but can’t stop the grin from creeping up on her, "Fine.”  He leans down a little, smile playing at his lips and in a half whisper, filled with danger and excitement says, “ _Run_.”

So they do. Leg it back out of the building, down several alleys, through a small park and finally out into a busy street. She’s out of breath and she’s lucky she didn’t break an ankle, but she still has enough energy to glare daggers at the Doctor who is barely breaking a sweat.

“I’m going to kill you,” She says between breaths, trying hard to look normal in the crowd, “You said hummingbirds. You said rabbits and bloody peacocks in purples like I’d never seen.”  


“Did you not see them? Are you blind now? Is it the roundness of your face that does that? Is that why you need three mirrors?”

She calls on every god and deity she’s ever heard of and every single one she's met to give her the strength not to smack him so hard his head rings. She takes a deep breath, and with iron will power, ignores him.

“You did not say, running half way across a moon,” (he mumbles something about it hardly being that distance which she also steadfastly ignores), “as fugitives for some unknown crime that has _nothing to do with me._ ” 

“That’s not, technically true…” he drifts off and she looks at him from the corner of her eye. “I might have… dropped in, a while ago and accidentally been proposed to.”  


“ _Proposed_ to?” She comes to an immediate halt looks at him gobsmacked.

“Bythequeen.”  


“By the what?”

“By the Queen.” He says, louder but has the decency to look at least a little embarrassed.

“What is it with you and queens?” 

“You tell me.” He raises an eyebrow like he knows it weakens her, and she clenches her jaw. _Don’t bite, Clara. Don’t bite._  

“So. Let me get this straight,” she says, turning and walking on because people are starting to look and the last thing they need right now is more attention, “You got proposed to, by the Queen, and you what, ran away?”

“Shut up,” he pushes her lightly with his shoulder, and she smirks. “I performed a tactical retreat.” 

Clara snorts at that, “And how did she feel about that?”

“Clara, we’re being chased through the streets, how do you think she felt?”

“Quite frankly, Doctor, when aren’t we being chased through the streets?”

He nods in admission, “Right. So she didn’t take it well, I might have left in a hurry, and my turning up here with you might be taken as a bit off an offence. Considering how, close we were standing and the whole nearly kissing thing…”

She ignores that, too. “How come it’s an offence? You turned her down, she must have guessed that meant there was a reason, a- someone… else,” she doesn't look at him, aware of the vague boundaries they’re tiptoeing round here, after all they still haven't exactly qualified _what_ they are. He doesn’t say a word, which initially she thinks of him considering these vague boundaries, too, but then looks at him sideways.

“Unless…” She turns to look at him properly and he doesn’t meet her eyes, which is answer enough, “Tell me, tell me you actually said no. Tell me you actually told her no rather than just running away. Doctor?”

“Ah, well, I- it was, I—“  


“You _idiot_. What exactly did you say?”

“I told her I had to go see a woman about soufflé.”

“You—“ Her chest suddenly feels funny. She doesn’t finish, can’t finish that sentence, but then changes her mind because has to, has to distract and move on from that implication. “What on earth was going through your head?”

“I needed to find out what was going on with their whales. There’s something fishy going on.”  


“Tell me you didn’t come here just for that joke.”

He giggles, _actually_ giggles and Clara wonders if he’s somehow drunk or maybe consumed something that makes him lose his mind but then decides she wants to eat the sound from his lips.

Dazedly, she ploughs on, “So, you didn’t tell her no, you legged it out a window and decided that it would be a great idea to— hang on. When was this?”

“I don't know, could have been months, years ago, Clara, could have been centuries, I don’t keep track.”

“But it wasn’t because they’re chasing us right now _,_ so when?”

“Three days ago,” he says quietly and she gives a heavy sigh.

“Idiot.” She shakes her head fondly and struggles to keep the smile from her face. “So what do we do now?”

“Ah, now, yes right, now. Have you got your breath back?”

“You’re joking,” there’s a shout from in front of them, semi lost in the crowd but still in hearing and definitely close enough to get her heart racing, “You’re not joking.”He grins at her and clasps her hand. 

“You’re doing this on purpose.” She squeezes his hand, and they set off in the opposite direction, slipping between people as quickly and casually as possible. The shouts are getting louder, and people are starting to give them funny looks, so he drags her round a corner as she hisses “Why exactly are we running? Surely she's not that unreasonable—“  


“Did I mention they have the death penalty?”

She very nearly pulls him to a stop but they emerge into a space free of people and he’s pulling her so she has to run, “Why is it always the death penalty? Why can’t it be something nice for once, or at least not _life threatening_. Besides, you only said no to her proposal, sort of, so it’s not like—“

“It’s a criminal offence.”

“To say no?”

“It’s complicated, but to essentially to a Queen, to _that_ Queen, yes.”

She’s about to make a remark but she takes a risky glance behind them and sees people pushing through the crowd with force, towards them. “Doctor.”

“Right. Come on,” He tugs at her hand and they sprint down a small road, coming out onto another street where there are more people but not enough to hide them. They walk swiftly, scanning side to side, hands gripping one another.

“They’re round the corner.”

“Yes.”

“They’re going to spot us.”

“Probably, yes.”

She looks at him, quietly thrilled to find he’s looking electric, incredibly attractive, and all kinds of mussed up at the same time. _Not the time, Clara._ “What are we going to do?”

“Very, _very_ good question.”

“So?”

He looks around. “No idea.”

She groans, and in hindsight, when she thinks back on it later, she wonders if that’s what it was. If it was that noise that somehow triggered it. The adrenaline, the _constant_ underlying tension and the appreciative glances she hasn’t been remotely hiding all day.

“Ah!” He spots something and pulls her towards it, into a side street, which is a very polite term for what it really is. Which is in fact an alley. More importantly, an alley with a dead end. 

“I really hope you can sonic up a magic door here, Doctor.”

She's not sure how she manages to get the words out, because in the next second he’s backing her against the wall, eyes fixating on her mouth. He leans in close enough that their lips brush when she says, “You’re definitely doing this on purpose” and then kisses her. Softly at first, like he’s not really sure this is the best idea. One of his hands slips around her waist, the other cups her face, and she doesn't know how they’ve managed to keep their hands off each other since _that time._ Her lips part of their own violation and he sucks lightly on her bottom lip, teasingly, gently. She hums in approval, slipping her own hands up into his hair because it’s the most ridiculous, absurd idea that she’s only ever seen work in tv shows and films and there is no way on any planet she’s ever set foot on that this can possibly work. It's the most idiotic plan she thinks she's ever come up with, and it’s sure to get them killed. This ‘method of hiding’ never works, it _never_ works. It’s utterly preposterous. Unbelievable, outrageous. It’s bloody daft if nothing else.

_Sod it._

He moves to kiss her jaw, along to hear earlobe where he nibbles and she groans quietly, tugging on his hair. He kisses her neck, bites and then moves to suck on the sensitive skin just below her ear which draws another noise from the back of her throat and she’s sure he's doing this on purpose. Trying to pull out every noise possible from her. She's trying to hold them in but shifts her head anyway so he can more fully lavish the spot. He presses closer to her, trapping her against the wall, his hand slipping under her shirt to stroke the bare skin on her hip, and vaguely in the back of her mind she wonders if Time Lords have some kind of electrical current running through them. 

She pulls his face up to kiss him because she can’t stand not kissing him, and she wants to hear those nosies from _him._ Wants to be the one to do that to him. So she deepens their kiss, biting on his lip, running her tongue along the back of his teeth, inviting his tongue into her mouth and sucking on it and until she hears what she needs; hears him groan with such a deep guttural fervour that heat pools in her spine. He moves back, and she drinks in the sight of him; hair tousled, lips slightly swollen, and a quite frankly divine flush to his cheeks. His eyes are molten, pupils blown and fixated on her.

“Clara,” his voice is throaty and deep, like dark velvet draped around her body. He slides a knee between her legs, thumbs her bottom lip then kisses it. He kisses her neck, alternating between sucking and biting, and murmurs “my Clara,” against her skin. She can feel his breath whispering across her collarbone, and if she’s being honest she thinks she could get off on the way he says her name alone. 

He nuzzles at the soft skin behind her ear, evidently a favoured place of his, chuckling as she gasps and swears, clutching at his shirt. She cants her hips against his and wants to smirk at the feeling of him, smile at the noise he makes, but the friction feels so good they both end up groaning, their breaths stuttering. 

“Clara.” He growls her name, desperation wrecking his voice as she grinds against him again, then twice more. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise (she knows they’ll bruise because she still fingers now unblemished skin where he left them last time), and stills her. They’re both breathing heavily. He looks at her, refuses to look away, fathomless heat dancing in his eyes, and slowly, agonisingly deliberate, grinds his hips against hers. 

“ _Fuck_.” She can’t help the way the word falls out, like some kind of desperate whimper, an untempered moan. She gets a flash of the red silk of his coat, now obscene and bordering pornographic, and his eyelids flutter for a fraction of a second. Then he kisses her, hands clutching either side of her face, crushing their mouths together with breathtaking ardour, groaning into her mouth as her own hands make their way under his shirt to grip his hips and pull him against her. He kisses her until she can’t breath and then shifts back to her neck, always her neck, along her collarbone which has somehow become accessible despite her having no memory of undoing any buttons. 

“Doctor,” she whines clutching at his hair, his shoulders, anything she can touch and bite her nails into. He kisses the hollow of her neck, round and back up to ears, her jaw, while his hand slips down into her jeans as if in reward for her mewling. She swears louder this time and he laughs against her mouth, the vibrations of it humming against her lips.  
She gulps in the air and looks up, getting a mildly irritating reminder that they’re outside. She says his name again, barely audible this time because he has such clever fingers, and so she says it again, louder this time. “ _Doctor_.” She’s vaguely aware of their present location but he’s so distracting she finds it hard to reign her thoughts in.

“ _Clara,_ ” he returns, voice gravelly and ruined. _Jesus christ._ She needs to concentrate.

“We’re not having sex in an alley.”

“What’s wrong with this alley?” He says, but he’s distracted; concentrating on sending her to an early grave with those masterful fingers.

“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with this alley, I’m sure it’s perfectly lovely,” she didn’t know she had the capacity to string so many words together with him latched onto her like that, so she gives herself a mental point, pauses to gather strength and continues, “But there is no way the first time we have sex it’s going to be in an alley, on a moon, half way across the galaxy,” she’s trying to extricate herself she really is, so she adds, “While we’re being chased.” Which it appears they both forgot about. Rather thoroughly. 

He lifts his head to look at her and god she wished he hadn’t because he’s breaking her resolve. He slides is hand around her waist, twists his fingers, leans in until his lips brush her ear and says “ _Clara_ ” rolling the R’s absolutely more than is necessary. She groans and fists the fabric of his lapels in her hands. When he says her name like that she would give him just about anything and he knows it. _Bastard._

She very nearly breaks. Very, very nearly throws caution to the wind and actually shags a Time Lord in an alley on a moon with purple hummingbirds and an extremely pissed of sovereign out for her head. But she doesn’t, because there’s just one small thing.

“Plus, there’s a group of about fifteen people watching us.” 

He freezes. Slowly he moves back just enough to look at her, and then cast a surreptitious glance towards the entrance of alley. Where there now appears to actually be about twenty people. He nods, very slightly, and looks back to her.

“How long have they been there?” He says quietly, and _god,_ _his voice._  


“I don’t know, but definitely long enough.” He nods again, and subtlety removes his hand. She laments the loss but under the circumstances, she lets it slide. She doesn’t think the crowd saw that, what with his coat having mostly hid the two of them, but she’s going to pretend they didn’t anyway. So she can leave with a little dignity at least. He buttons up his coat, and takes her hand. 

Absurdly, and perhaps because they’re both mortified and still a little dazed, they give a small bow to the crowd, which becomes even _more_ preposterous when the crowd raise a hearty cheer and round of applause, laughing and moving aside to let them pass. 

“If you were going for subtly I think we may have overshot the mark, frankly.”

“It worked didn’t it?”

Clara narrows her eyes at him, “If you planned this whole thing just so you could cop a feel in a back lane, I’m going to bloody kill you.”

“Clara! Would I do that?” His hair is still beautifully messed up, and she thinks that might be his saving grace, so just laughs at the inanity of the whole situation. Her heart is racing, her whole body feels like it’s on fire, and she thinks if she cared a little less she’d just have it off with him here and now in a square full of people. 

“Are we still on the run?” She asks absently, looking around as casually as she can.

“Oh, yes. In fact, we should probably head back to the TARDIS right now. Just to be on the safe side. Err on the side of caution for once.”

“Definitely. A sound plan, Doctor.”

“Unless you want see the—“

“No.”

“Not even—“

“No.” She says firmly, pulling his hand round to stare at him. She can see the quirk of his lips, and the glint of mirth in his eyes. _Git._ “Back to the TARDIS.”

“Right.” He’s smiling now and she loves every second of it. She tugs him closer and stands on her tiptoes. Kisses him lightly.

“Back to safety,” slips her hand inside his coat, “Away from prying eyes and jealous Queens,” palms him through his trousers, satisfied to hear the choked noise he produces, “To bed.”

She removes her hands smiles smugly, raising her eyebrow in challenge.

“Oh, Clara, my Clara,” he elongates her name and she feels it in her toes, just as a shout comes in the distance to their left. They both look to see the group who were previously chasing them, and turn back to one another. He grins, his eyes sparkling and grabs her hand.

“ _Run_.”

 


End file.
